Diaspora, Can'T Go Home
Diaspora that cant go home
Mum and Dad came on boats not grand
They left the sun behind
To the old country to lend a hand
replacing uncertainty and find
Prosperity, erase the poverty of native land
And we’ll send money back home.
They were met with sticks and stones
Were broken, not just their bones
Wogs and minstrels they were called
In Harsh winters and damp ghettos hauled,
unfamiliar foods and hapless children
Tears flowed inside and years out,
From broken ribs phlegm does spout
Husband’s and fathers ruled with fists
Paraffin fires took lives of kids
Benefits to small to feed and clothe
Necessitate a hustle to cope
And depression became the reward
Misery slapped hard onto every face
No pubs to ail our weary souls
This old country is a hard hard place
Welfare killed all dreams and hopes
Drugs and anecdotes became our lot
Newer immigrants got the jackpot
Penniless and broke, Too ashamed to go home
No riches to share, not welcomed, disowned.
Copyright © Karen Cleaver-Bascombe | Year Posted 2016
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